


1941

by HerdOfTurtles



Series: My sad attempt at whumptober 2020 [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Burns, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Hurt No Comfort, Trapped, Whump, Whumptober 2020, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerdOfTurtles/pseuds/HerdOfTurtles
Summary: 1941: England is the only power in Europe left standing, and the height of the Blitz is soon to cast its shadow over London.Written for Whumptober 2020, prompt: Collapsed building
Series: My sad attempt at whumptober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949041
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1941

**Author's Note:**

> God the Blitz scares me. Researching it was... hard. I found some cool things like operation double cross and the starfish cities, but overall the circumstances of it make 2020 look like a walk in the park and that's terrifying.

The sky darkened over the evening orange, turning the gossamer sunset into navy blue, slowly becoming a stygian cloak. All of London descended into dread under that night cloak. Silent pensive fear controlled the streets. England felt it. Every tremor, anxiety, and heartbeat.

_some of those heartbeats will soon be gone_

He ignored his thoughts. During the past week, England had discovered that his head was capable of being just as cruel as his enemies. Some terrible demons lived down in his useless skull... that he never doubted. But later they were practically clawing their way up for a glimpse of hell.

England shivered. The September air was cold. Hell, the one those horrid demons lived for, would soon show its face. The street- the rubble filled, scorched street- looked grey as a bone under dust and dead as a bone too.

England felt numb while dread boiled his insides. He wasn't ready for this... he was so far from shelter, mentally, and physically. He began to walk faster through the city.

His hands were already shaking when the low, distant hum of engines grew in the air and the sirens started to wail and shriek as if the very city was shuddering. But it was, the city, the country was shuddering because England was shuddering and he was out in the wide open with the sky above him because he couldn't get to shelter. Not where the people were. Someone would ask questions: how he heals, his screams, the blood. And there was no private, vacant space left except the street and if it wasn't vacant of life it would be soon.

He had to reach a specific shelter, a distant one and he'd never been late to go into hiding until today.

The earth shook under his feet, and in the distance, the first burst of demonic orange painted the skyline. 

His stomach dropped and he broke into a sprint.

That distant orange and red swirled small at first, uncertain, as if tasting its environment like a hungry beast born into the world. But it grew fast. It soon found that it had no preference for what it devoured, only that there be plenty to consume... and London was filled with centuries of life to consume. 

A second burst on the horizon into angry colour, closer, coming nearer into sight. Then another, and again in a trail dropping from the invisible shadows sweeping through the sky.

England grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Throbbing white hot pain was blooming across his skin, the familiar bite of flames licking away at his heart making him to grimace and his sprint waver.

Then an earsplitting scream whistled through the pitch black ringing England's ears over the wail of the city and England flinched in pain.

He heard the thunderous scream aimed _too close_. His brain barely processed and his eyes widened a fraction before the light exploded and fire kissed his face as the world spun and pelts of ash and stone and wood showered his skin like millions of tiny needles. His side burst into numb pain with a strangled choked cry.

Ash billowed through the air and stung his face, blood thrummed under England's skin. His legs moved on their own accord, trying to take a startled leap away, but they were already seconds too late. Piercing anguish greeted him when stone crashed into his side and a sharp exhale cracked from his ribs.

Gold horrible flicks of flame exploded into sparks as wood cracked and splinters shot into the air. 

Then the sky was gone.

Stunned shock held him numb. Then, creeping in their claws into his nerves his reality found him. England felt as if his whole body was on fire... it was all he could do to keep gasping in air, inhaling, holding his breath in anguish and pain then exhaling and repeating. It was too hot, there was too much pressure, and his heart was throbbing while his delirium-plagued mind tried to catch up. 

He was stuck. That's why his legs wouldn't move. That's why he felt like his body was being crushed. 

The sheer amount of times he'd dreamt this exact moment, feeling, and struggle before dying sent shivers wracking through him. From subconscious connections to his people, he knew what this would be like, all the way up to the slow suffocation as fire consumed his skin and oxygen. But unlike his people, he couldn't die. His body might stay here for weeks. His body would stay, continue to die, and the fire would continue to ravage in and delight itself with sustaining kindling.

Struggling to calm himself, England slowed his gasps. His body was screaming under the pressure, feeling as if he would crumple under the rubble like a tincan-- but wallowing in pain and panic would make for even more crushing company than his already heavy burden stepping down on his weakened and battered body. 

He sat in still silence for a bit, mind too occupied with his screaming nerves to do much else.

Blood was already curling from between his fingers, trickling into the dust. Dully he focused on watching it drip. It sunk into the pale grey dust, copper brown, shaking slightly under the muffled tremors of stone caused by far off explosions. The dust was plumed through the air, making it even harder to breathe even though he was already competing with the glowing embers crawling across the split wooden beams above him.

He noticed with numb realisation that the stinging in his leg was from a sizzling wooden beam pressed firmly into his skin, already burned through his uniform. The realisation seemed to heighten the stinging to unbearable levels and he bit back a cry while cursing his brain for noticing.

A week. He might be here a week. At best it would only be a night, but no one would look for him until the raid stopped. As long as the low hum of sirens reached him under the collapsed structure, he was on his own. England stifled another noise in his throat, berating himself for coming back to London.

England occupied himself with ignoring the weight on his body. He just had to accept it.

He could do this... he could wait. In a few months this would only be a cursed memory; another demon in his head to bury. And- and as the night went on, things would only get easier. He would survive this, there was no question about it. It was only a matter of mentality winning against his body. 

His body was winning, though. 

He almost wished another bomb would land atop him and put him out of commission. Reviving was merely akin to a God awful hangover, and he'd take one hundred of those over feeling every cell in his body struggling to re-knit while his bones were held broken, his skin charred and burned, and his body bleed shocking red sanguine leaving him soaked. 

One arm was free-- shrapnel littered, nerves alight, but nothing compared to the rest of his bent and mangled self-- so he twitched it experimentally. It was stained; he couldn't tell if it was damaged or if elsewhere had painted it red. He figured as long as he didn't know it'd be fine... he didn't exactly have to worry about permanent damage. Nations could push themselves as far as they could endure.

He began to claw through the dirt, leaving dust stuck to his red hands and sticky trails of dirt on the wood next to him. A brief amount of time was spent trying to maneuver his legs free, forcing him to press his palm against the orange glow trapping him down and causing tears to prick in his eyes. Angry raw pain bubbled into his skin and forced him to give up.

England tried three more times before pain won out, and his battered body succumbed to exhaustion and bloodloss. His last thoughts were formless, filled with disappointments, fearfulness, relief, and drowsy acceptance.

The next day, when concerned citizens dug him up, he wouldn't wake. Only the bare rise and fall of his chest saved his corpse, and put him safely in danger in a half broken house nearby.

**Author's Note:**

> 100% certain that if the nations were people all of them would barely be able to function without repressing their memories. I mean... even before the World Wars... history is violent and traumatizing. Just imagine being forced to live through all of it without ever being able to die or forget...


End file.
